


Spiked

by isadora



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isadora/pseuds/isadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carrie's drink is spiked. Quinn hates being the good guy sometimes. Gratuitous fluff and smut this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SourCherryBlossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/gifts).



It’s been a long day - it’s been a long week - and there’s nothing Quinn wants to do than sit quietly in the corner of his local bar, scotch in hand, and watch the world go by. He’s well sheltered, walls to his back and left so he doesn’t have to feel tense about someone sneaking up on him. The bartender will keep him topped up so he doesn’t have to move. He feels himself slowly begin to relax.

The bar’s buzzing; it’s a Friday night. Groups of office workers laugh over their pints of beer, raucous, all of them so visibly dissatisfied with life. Men twisting their wedding rings into pockets and leaning in to their pretty colleagues’ personal space, women in too much makeup running falsely casual hands down their friends’ arms. Quinn watches the interplay, the tensions between the group, with half an eye. In the far corner a man greets his girlfriend with a lingering kiss on the cheek; no, not girlfriend, she pulls away too quickly, awkward. First date then. He smiles darkly; glad to be out of that lifestyle at least. 

By the bar two old men reminisce over glasses of malt whiskey, heads bent close together to be heard over the noise of the shirts; Quinn wonders idly whether he’ll make their age, whether he’ll get out of the CIA. He wonders whether Carrie will ever get out too; imagines them, as he does when he’s a little drunk and maudlin, making a go of things. He’s obsessive, almost; he thinks about her all the time, sees her in every place. The blonde girl on the first date could be her, he thinks, though the concept of her dating other men sets his teeth on edge.

He knows in his heart that she’s in love with a dead man still and carries the scars of their relationship on her heart. He’s seen her refuse to let anyone get close, has seen her use men for sex and throw them aside. A dark side of him appreciates it; she’d be lauded for her ruthlessness as a man so what right does he have to judge her for using her skills as a woman?

Forcing his attention away from her - it’s far too early in the evening to be focussed on something he can’t have - he skims the bar again for anything interesting. The office workers are on their fourth round, their boss becoming increasingly loud and obnoxious as he flags down the bartender for more drinks on the tab. The old men are becoming irritated with the noise; they look around the bar for another seat, spotting a table freeing up near Peter and picking up their drinks. He smiles wryly - if he’d been in their position the office manager would probably be in the parking lot re-aligning his nose. Which is why he sits in the corner.

His eyes slide to the blonde girl facing away from him. Her date has gone to the bar for fresh drinks; a pint of lager and a large sauvignon blanc, from his admittedly rusty lipreading. The man has a cold look to his face, something that sets Quinn’s nerves on edge, and he watches him for a moment, trying to place what it is. The man reaches into his back pocket to pay, pulls out a brand new wallet - nothing suspicious there really - cash payment, as would be expected in a cheap bar - again, all in order. He’s polite with the barman, doesn’t look like he’s there to make trouble.

And just as Quinn is about to look away and blame the scotch for his paranoia, the man digs into his back pocket and pulls out a little bag of white powder which he tips into the wine. As the powder dissolves the man swirls the glass a few times and heads back to the table, touching his date’s shoulder for a little too long as he hands her the drink. They clink glasses and she takes a large sip and Quinn swears under his breath, not wanting to get involved in this shit but unable to walk away ethically.

He’s in luck; the man rises to his feet and heads towards the bathroom as the girl takes another swallow of wine. Quinn pushes his chair back and moves towards the bar, catching the bartender’s attention.

“Guy in the bathroom spiked his date’s drink” he mutters under his breath, “I’m going to try and get her out but consider this a warning.”

The bartender nods and claps Quinn on the shoulder; he’s broken up enough bar fights here that they’re on good terms.

Quinn approaches the lady and clears his throat.

“Sorry to disturb you, miss” he says, and she turns to face him, and his words die in his throat.

“Quinn?!” she asks, twisting round fully, “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?!” he hisses, suddenly panicked. She lifts her glass for another sip and he catches her wrist, wine slopping onto the table.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The male voice comes from behind him; Quinn whips around and catches the man by his collar.

“I’m the man who’s making sure she gets home safely tonight” he growls, and is gratified to see his pale and take a step back.

“Whatever man, it’s all cool.”

Quinn’s temper flares, and he shoves the man back against the bar, teeth gritted. The man gasps in pain as his back smacks against the hard wood of the bar; Quinn gives not one single flying fuck.

“Spiking a drink is not cool, and if I ever catch you doing it again I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born with a dick, do I make myself clear?”

The man nods, and scampers for the exit, and slowly the conversations around them resume in a susurrus of whispers. Quinn couldn’t give a flying fuck, his blood is boiling with the thought of this vile man drugging her into a stupor and doing god knows what (his mind provides plenty of unpleasant visuals).

She catches his sleeve, eyes wide and pupils already dilated.

“What the fuck? Are you fucking stalking me or something?”

“He spiked your drink” he spits, and then his anger abandons him suddenly, replaced with a sick anxiety, and he sits down, covering her hand with his, “He spiked your drink, Carrie.”

****

He helps her outside; she says she’s fine but her eyes are unfocussed and he can see that she’s disorientated.

“We should get you checked out” 

Her eyes focus for a moment, boring into him.

“No fucking hospitals.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender and as he does she loses her balance, pitching into him. His arms come around her quickly, supporting her. She’s so light in his arms, weighing virtually nothing. She’s made an effort for the date, he realises; a slick of eyeshadow, a waft of perfume, and he suddenly feels sad for both of them.

She sighs, rests her head against his chest.

“I knew he was an asshole” she mumbles, one hand around his waist in a mockery of intimacy, her fingers splayed against his back for support, “I had a gut feeling but I just...I just wanted to have a normal night for once. You know? Go on a date, be a regular person.”

His heart aches for her and he rests his chin on her head, smoothing her hair.

“I know.”

He can feel her movement when she pulls back a fraction to raise her head and every fibre of him wants to allow it, to indulge in the kiss, but if his moral compass is skewed it’s sure as hell reliable enough to steer him away from women so stoned they can barely remember their own name, and he tilts his head away slightly so that her lips only meet the curve of his jaw.

“Peter” she breathes, and he pretends he can’t read the hurt in her voice, the hopeful question.

“Carrie, you’re going to regret this tomorrow” he says as gently as he can, keeping her close, keeping her balanced, “You’re not thinking straight at the moment.”

She nods wordlessly and then doesn’t move or say anything for a long time; it takes him nearly a minute to read the hitch in her breathing and the quiver of her shoulders and he distances himself for a moment to confirm that she really is crying.

“Please don’t” he says, with no little measure of panic, gripping her shoulders as though he can hold her together physically, but it’s too late; tears are flowing freely down her face, her eyes red and swollen. “Carrie, come on, let’s get you home. Can you tell me where you live?”

The second the words are out he knows it’s over-optimistic; her eyes glaze over and she slumps forward again, clearly on the brink of exhaustion and/or a meltdown. He slings her arm over his shoulder and helps her towards his car; his first drink was barely finished when all this kicked off. Great fucking way to spend his Friday, he thinks bitterly.

Once he’s ladled her into the passenger seat she leans forward, sobbing in earnest into her hands.

“Carrie, what is it?” he asks hopelessly, but she’s too far gone to respond, head lolling to the side as the tears roll silently down her cheeks.

Sighing, he pushes the car into gear and begins the drive back to his motel. 

 

*****

They stop twice for her to throw up and after the second time her lucidity starts to return, although she’s groggy as fuck. Nitrazepam, he thinks; lucky she’s already on sedative meds or it would have completely knocked her out; as it is she clearly has some tolerance. Nonetheless he has to carry her into his place (he could leave her in the car to sleep it off, he thinks, he could have taken her to the medics at Langley or hacked the system for her address and driven her home).

He puts her in his bed (the sofa, he thinks, would have been just fine. Or the front seat of his car) and indulges himself in stroking the hair back off her forehead. She’s not feverish or confused, just flat out exhausted as he’d expect under the circumstances, and he knows she just needs to sleep it off. He’s got no excuse to stay with her. He feels a protectiveness that he’s exceedingly uncomfortable with swell inside him; protectiveness is a weakness and not one he can afford at the moment, not in the job that he does. Protectiveness gets people killed. And yet - tear stained and tense even in sleep - he just wants to wrap himself around her.

As if hearing his thoughts she stirs and reaches out sleepily, catching his hand, tangling their fingers together.

“Don’t leave me” she sighs, running her thumb over the back of his hand, and his resolve nearly fails him completely.

“I have to sleep” he says, and she shifts in the bed, waking up a little, her pupils still dilated

“I’m in your bed.”

He smiles at her, unable to hide the warmth in his eyes.

“I’ll get the couch. It’s fine, Carrie, I’ve slept in plenty worse.”

She sits up, stretches obviously. He’s careful not to look at the tightness of her top over her breasts.

“I could use a shower.”

Taken slightly aback by her change of tack he gestures towards the bathroom and hands her a towel.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

He nods, turns to his cupboard to pick one up for her, and turns to find her top strewn on his bed and her leaning against the doorway in her bra. He’s not sure whether to laugh, cry or just be fucking irritated at this point.

“Carrie...”

She moves to block him as he tries to pass her and he catches her elbows in his hands, unable to stop himself for looking (just for a second, he justifies, just to make sure....of something) at the expanse of creamy flesh. He’s so used to seeing her in shapeless shirts; he had no idea (aside from his vivid imagination) that the swell of her breasts would be so inviting, how addicting the curve of her waist would be. He wants to put his hands all over her. He won’t take advantage of her while she’s high as a kite.

Temporarily defeated she heads for the bathroom, deliberately leaving the door open a fraction behind her; he hears the sound of her cleaning her teeth and the hum of the shower starting. He forces himself not to think about what she would look like, naked and lithe under the shower with water streaming down her body, and palms his cock angrily as though he can stop being hard for her by sheer force of will.

He fucking hates being the good guy sometimes.

It’s no surprise whatsoever at this point that she comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel and a frankly filthy expression on her face.

 

“Carrie, put some clothes on” he says tiredly and she honest to god pouts.

“I don’t have any clean clothes.”

He sighs so loudly his late father could probably hear it and goes to his cupboard, grabbing a pair of boxers and a t-shirt.

“You can wear these” he says, more terse than he intends, and she walks silently back into the bathroom with his clothes. When she comes out, the euphoria has completely vanished and she looks tired and pale, shifting from one foot to the other in the doorway.

“I’m sorry” she says, haltingly, “I actually...thought you were interested. Otherwise I wouldn’t have tried.”

He blinks, processing all of that. How could she possibly know? He had been so careful.

Some of his dismay must show on his face because she flushes, awkward, and turns towards his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Quinn. Thanks for looking after me.”

He sits silently on his sofa, brow furrowed, for several minutes, turning over his feelings in his mind. His pulse thrums with adrenaline, with anticipation. This is a game changer, he thinks. She’s sobered up. She’s showered. And she’s just admitted that she realises that he likes her and she still wants to get close to him. This is unexpected to say the least. Once he’s got his head somewhat in order, he gets to his feet and pads to the bedroom. No surprise to find Carrie still awake, eyes bright in the half darkness.

They stare at each other for a moment and he takes a step into the room, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

“I am” he breathes, feeling like he’s having an out of body experience. He’s used to casual sex, anonymous hookups where he’ll never have to see them again, never get hurt. He’s used to being in control, being able to vanish without a trace if he needs to.

She sits up, sheets pooling around her waist, and he takes a step forwards. His heart is honest to god thumping so hard in his chest he’s sure she can hear it from there.

Perhaps sensing that he is frozen in place she swings her legs out of bed and pads across the room towards him. She’s shorter than he remembers barefoot, and so slight he can wrap one arm around her waist. She doesn’t go in to kiss him this time; wraps her arms around his waist and lays her head against his chest, somewhere between seeking and offering comfort.

“I am too” she breathes, her breath hot against his chest, “I just keep telling myself it’s such a fucking bad idea and...”

 

“...and it can only end in pain, right?”

She pulls back and looks up at him, exhaustion written deep in the lines of her face.

“Until it doesn’t. Quinn, I’m sick of this. I’m sick of having to pretend to be someone I’m not just to have a shot at a normal life. Is that so bad?”

He shuffles forwards a couple of steps, keeping her held close to him, until her knees hit the back of the bed and they sink into the mattress in an ungainly tangle of arms and legs. They move around until she’s curled in a ball, knees tucked into her chest, head buried in his shoulder.

“I don’t want to hurt you” he says, and she huffs a laugh.

“That’s my line.”

Her response takes the wind out of his sails; but he can see the logic. It’s not like she’s the only one with commitment issues.

Slowly, deliberately, he takes her face in his hands and tilts her head back, fingers carding through her hair as he closes the gap between them and kisses her, slow and deep and everything he’s been fantasising about since he met her. She arches against him, warm and pliant, tasting of toothpaste and his shower gel, and he thinks that this could be exactly what it’s like further down the line, as a part of something enduring and stable.

He’s hard, trying and failing not to grind against her hip, and she slides a hand over the front of his boxers, palming him through the cotton. A breath hisses out of him and he can’t help thrusting against the friction for a moment before he pulls back.

“Carrie, I can’t...”

She recoils as though she’s been slapped and he keeps hold of her, speaking quickly before she can misunderstand.

“I can’t tonight. I need to know you’re 100% sober and you know what you’re doing and understand the consequences and neither of us know what you were spiked with, do you understand?”

She lets out her breath slowly and closes her eyes

“Can’t you just trust me?”

He’s on dangerous ground now, he can feel it.

“I do. One day is all I’m asking, and if you still feel the same tomorrow you can keep me here for as long as you want me.”

“In your motel?”

“In my bed.”

Her eyes dilate and she pulls him into another kiss, a kiss with a real hit of fire in it. Her teeth scrape over his lower lip and she runs her fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. He’s never wanted anything more than to fuck her. Delayed gratification doesn’t really form a significant part of their lifestyle.

He leans over her, ghosts his thumb tantalisingly over her breast and presses an open mouthed kiss to her neck, feeling her pulse jump under his lips.

“I’ll make it worth the wait.”

Her eyes are almost black as she looks up at him, chest rising and falling in the half light of the room.

“Promise?”

“You can fucking count on it” he vows, and she smiles slow and dangerous and alluring beyond all belief. 

“I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

She’s surprisingly well behaved after that; she curls into his side and falls asleep relatively quickly, breath evening out into deep sighs that he feels through his chest. It takes Quinn longer to drift off; he feels an odd state between elation and despair, convinced in his heart that she will wake the next morning in a panic, full of denial, and break what’s left of his heart. Even thinking that though, she’s too beautiful and serene to let go, and he holds her in his arms until sleep takes him under.

He dreams, not for the first time, about her. It’s abstract; glimpses of her hair, her eyes, her skin flash in front of his eyes, and then the hot wet feeling of her mouth around him, small fingers stroking over his thighs.

His hips twitch upwards, seeking more friction, and she pushes down with one hand as she slides her lips back, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock. The sensations are almost overwhelming; her hair tickles his belly, her breath against his tender flesh sends goosebumps springing up. 

“Carrie” he breathes, reaching down to tangle his hands in her hair, “Fuck”

He doesn’t want to wake up from this, he thinks in desperation as consciousness pushes down on him. He’s so close, the knot at the base of his spine tensing in preparation for what would be a spectacular orgasm if he wasn’t going to wake up before it happened.

Awakeness crashes into him and he opens his eyes, furious, the feel of Carrie’s lips around his shaft lingering around the recesses of his conscious. 

No.

The feel of Carrie’s lips is real.

Fuck.

He nearly comes just thinking about it, and has the sudden urge to see her. Peeling back his sheet the sight nearly knocks him backwards; she’s flushed and tousled, cheeks hollowed as she swallows him down, huge dark eyes staring back at him.

Time seems to stand still for a moment as his brain goes into overdrive. This is wrong, his conscience screams at him. She might still be drugged. She might not be thinking straight. She might be about to completely break his heart if she’s just using him for sex. He might be about to do the same to her. He’s not ready for this, he hasn’t calculated all the variables.

And yet here they are; Carrie’s impulsiveness sweeping him along with her again, and he can’t even find a shred of regret for it.

“Carrie” he breathes again, reverently, unable to take his eyes off her. She hums around him, one hand stroking the inside of his thigh, the vibrations taking his breath away. He makes a faint noise of warning, tries to pull her up, but like the fucking champion she is she slides down again, relaxing her throat muscles to accommodate him, and with a fractional scrape of teeth on his cock he comes so hard that he sees stars, a guttural noise being wrenched from his throat. He’s dimly aware of her swallowing around him, feather light kisses on his hipbone, the brush of her hair against his torso. 

It takes most of his brain power and energy to pull her into his arms but in the recesses of his brain he thinks it’s Very Important to do that, though he can’t quite figure out why.

“You’re not mad?” she asks cautiously

Yeah, that’s why.

He musters his brainpower and opens his eyes. He must look goofy as fuck because she laughs out loud, and reaches out a tentative hand to stroke his hair back.

“Do I look mad?” he asks deadpan, and before she can answer he gives into temptation, rolls her over and kisses her hard, relishing the way she arches up into him. He pulls away, smirking at her indignation, and pins her wrists above her head, biting down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

“That’s the best wakeup call I’ve ever had” he mumurs between kisses, “But the problem is” punctuated with a nip to the top of her breast, “I’m not as young as I used to be and now I’m going to have to spend at least 20 minutes teasing you before I can get to be where I really want to.”

As he talks his hand slides between her legs, one long finger slipping inside, making it abundantly clear where he wants to be. Carrie’s breathing is ragged; she already looks wrecked, and while half of him likes the idea of teasing her, bringing her to the edge and back again, the other half of him just wants to make her happy, wants to see the look on her face as she comes for him.

He frames her face with his hands, pushes her hair back. Words form and die on the tip of his tongue and all he can do is kiss her again, something broken and desperate inside of it.

“I’ll kill anyone who hurts you again” he says, and she pulls away, something between a laugh and sob on her lips. 

“That’s the weirdest thing anyone’s said to me” she says, without vitriol, her hands coming to cover his, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “But thank you.”

Somewhere through the conversation his body has woken up again and he shifts against her, hardness nudging her thigh. She spreads her legs in invitation, and he takes his time stroking lines across the inside of her thighs, grazing the soft skin with his nail just to hear her breath hitch. She’s slick and ready and he’s torn between wanting to prolong this in case it never happens again and desperation, animalistic, to be inside her.

 

His conflict must show on his face because she makes the decision for him, shimmying her underwear off and hooking a leg over his hip; so close, but leaving him to close the distance. He does, and the sensation nearly knocks him flat; so tight and hot and wet that he has to stop for a second and breathe deeply to avoid embarassing himself.

Carrie’s head is flung back and he suddenly wants to mark the creamy expanse of her throat so he does, sucking at the skin until it’s reddened and her breathing stutters. He slides, agonisingly slowly, out, feeling every inch of her, and then slams in so hard the headboard smacks against the cheap motel wall and she honest to god screams. Always a confidence boost. He repeats the trick and gets the same effect and grins breathlessly at her, elated.

She arches against him, impatient, and he thinks that she’s been wanting this since last night, so he ups his pace and brings a hand between them, grazing her clit with his thumb in time with his thrusts until she’s whimpering and swearing brokenly, half formed curses and prayers interspersed with his name, gripping his arms so tightly he thinks he’ll have bruises.

Time seems to stand still as she tenses up finally, nails digging into him, clenching hard around him, and the goes utterly lax, breath coming out in harsh gasps which slowly subside as she sinks into his chest.

“Fuck” she breathes, and he brushes his lips across her neck, sliding into her slow and deep, pleasure twisting in his gut. She feels incredible, so responsive to his touches even exhausted and sated, and he holds her tight in his arms as his orgasm washes over him, less violent but no more intense than the first.

They lie in silence for a long moment, heartrates returning to normal. Carrie shifts slightly and winces and he pulls back, unsure whether she’s going to have a massive freak out on him.

“Ok?” he asks, voice more tentative than he was aiming for. She rolls back into his arms and strokes the underneath of his wrist

“Sore” she admits with a smile, “It’s been a while.”

Relief floods him - and no little measure of smugness. She reads it on his face and nudges him with an elbow, head lolling against his shoulder.

“I need a shower” she announces and he reluctantly releases her, unabashedly enjoying the view as she slides out of bed, the light catching the curves and peaks of her body.

As the sound of running water fills the room he wonders what the hell comes next. Somehow inviting her out for brunch doesn’t seem like a normal next step with her; there is no normal with Carrie. But god he wants her; has done since he met her with an intensity that scares him when he holds it up to the light. He craves her smile, the impulsiveness with which she lives her life, the spark she brings to a room. He would quite happily kill all the men in his path to be with her, he thinks, without batting an eyelid. 

The shower shuts off and she appears in the doorway wrapped in a towel and shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot.

Oh Carrie, he thinks, don’t get awkward on me now.

“This was...”

He surges out of bed, furious, not caring that he’s naked.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Carrie, don’t you fucking dare.”

Her mouth clicks shut, eyes wide as he backs her into the doorframe.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you? And then you turn up here stoned out of your fucking mind and throwing yourself at me, and I have to be the good guy, and now you’re going to tell me that this was a fucking mistake? No. I won’t let you do this, I’m not going to let you sabotage yourself again. I know you want this, Carrie, and you’re being a fucking coward.”

She blinks, tears welling in her eyes, and he suddenly feels like the biggest shitbag known to man.

“Peter...”

“Carrie, fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...”

“You wanted me?”

He’s stunned speechless at her surprise, heart aching at the open vulnerability in her eyes. She sees sex as a commodity, he knows that about her; and yet here she looks so fragile at the thought that she would be prized more highly.

 

“I want you.”

Her breath hitches and she moves forward, resting her forehead against his chest.

“I’d been going to say ‘this was fun’ before you went off on one” she mumbles, and he grimaces.

“I have a bit of a short temper sometimes” he admits grudgingly, and feels the curve of her smile against his collarbone.

“I have a full blown psychotic disorder” she counters, “Beat that.”

“Emotionally constipated trained assassin”

Silence falls, comfortable this time, until his stomach rumbles loudly.

“Toast?” he asks, and that’s how it progresses.

They eat toast in the kitchenette and when they’re finished he bends her over the counter and fucks her until neither of them can stand, then carries her back into the bedroom and wraps himself around her, holding her as close as he can, every possible inch of skin touching.

“What happens now?” she asks, words muffled against his chest, and he doesn’t really have an answer for that. He wants everything, he thinks. Stability, peace, a proper house with pictures on the walls. Kids, maybe, someday. Rings. Somehow he thinks that even someone less of a flight risk than Carrie might not take that so well.

“I know a good place around the corner that does brunch” he offers and wanted to kick himself for being so lame, but Carrie smiles up at him slightly incredulously.

“Are you taking me on a date, Quinn?”

In for a penny in for a pound, he thinks.

“That’s what people do when they want to carry on seeing someone, right?”

She blinks, again, surprised but recovers more quickly this time.

“Brunch, then” she breathes with a tone of wonder. 

It’s not a long term commitment, he thinks, pulling her in for a languid kiss, but it’s a damn good start.


End file.
